


I'll be the dawn on your worst night

by wordsinpaper



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsinpaper/pseuds/wordsinpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor knows he should have known better. Maybe he should have cancelled the dinner. He’s almost certain he wouldn’t be sitting on the cold sidewalk right now, watching the flames coming out of his kitchen window, with his boyfriend rubbing his back reassuringly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be the dawn on your worst night

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at summaries. And even more at titles. Please don't sue me, I'm poor.  
> The prompt I got was "A romantic home dinner gone wrong", so of course I had to make everything go wrong instead.  
> As usual, you can find me on [tumblr](http://wordsputtopaper.tumblr.com) if you ever want to stop by and say "hello!".

Connor knows he should have known better. Maybe he should have cancelled the dinner.

What am I even thinking? Why would I cancel on my boyfriend?

But he has to admit things could have gone differently if his pride hadn’t gotten in the way. He’s almost certain he wouldn’t be sitting on the cold sidewalk right now, watching the flames coming out of his kitchen window, with said boyfriend rubbing his back reassuringly.

Let’s rewind a little, shall we?

It all started when he woke up that day and walked into the dresser by his bedroom door, which left a nasty purple bruise near his right hip. He’d gotten distracted by his phone and let his coffee get too hot. After he sent a quick text to Oliver telling him to come over later that day, he’d picked up his coffee mug, brought it to his lips and burnt his tongue. A whole lot of things happened after that. He cursed, the mug slipped from his fingers and lost a battle against gravity. The coffee burnt his skin as it ran down his chest, eliciting another curse from Connor.

In his haste to get to the sink to put some cold water on his red-hot chest, he’d cut his foot on a small piece of his now shattered mug.

That had been the first time that morning Connor was ready to go back to bed and wait for the afternoon to come and rid him of his bad luck.

He’d skipped the coffee, deciding that picking up the broken bits off the kitchen floor before things took another bad turn was more important.

When he was done, he went back to his bedroom and picked some clothes to put on after taking a shower. Connor thought he was relatively safe, after what had already happened. He was wrong. He slipped in the shower while he was cleaning the wound on his foot, and ended up with another bruise on his left side.

That was when he decided to take things slowly. It would certainly lessen his chances of getting into any more accidents before the day was done.

Fast-forward to lunch time. There were no broken glasses or plates, nor were there any more spilling of hot beverages. A sense of relief had washed over him. He’d been right; the afternoon would be better.

Wrong. So wrong.

Connor went out to get some groceries and, in the middle of getting the bags into the apartment, the door slammed shut locking him out.

He placed the paper bags by his door and went back to the first floor, knocking on the building manager’s door.

After a few minutes of no response, the door across the hall opened.

“If you’re looking for Mr. Smith, he’ll be gone the next couple of days. Family emergency, he said.”

Connor sighed.

“Did he leave the master key with you or someone else?”

The woman frowned, deep in thought.

“I don’t think he did, young man. He left in a hurry. I think he knew he wouldn’t be gone for long and didn’t think it would be needed.”

Connor paced back and forth, scratching the back of his head.

“Of course he didn’t. How am I going to get back into my apartment now?”

“You should probably try calling a locksmith,” the woman suggested.

“Yeah. I’m gonna look that up now.”

He thanked the woman and looked up a nearby locksmith. He tried the number, but it was busy. He paced some more and tried again. Four tries later, he finally got picked up.

“Hello, uh, I was wondering if you could help me out. I’m locked out of my apartment.”

The man on the other side of the line explained that he was currently out on his way to another client and it could take a while to get back to Connor’s address, which didn’t make Connor feel any more relaxed about the whole situation. “It’s really going to be a couple hours before you can get here?”

“Look, man. I don’t know what to tell you. Is there any other way you can get inside? I get that you’re in hurry, but there’s not much I can do. I got three other buildings to hit first. I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’ll… I’ll figure something out. Thank you anyway.”

Going back to his door, heavy steps echoing in the stairwells, he thought about texting Oliver to cancel their plans. He really didn't want to do it, but he was starting to think that today was just not his day.

Connor reached his door, sat down on his doormat and took his phone out of his pocket.

“If only there was a way to get back inside, I could try to salvage this. But with the door locked…” he whispered to himself.

He froze, finger hovering over the screen of his phone.

“The window!”

He quickly got up from the floor, almost slipping on the doormat, and ran up the stairs.

He knocked on the door with urgency. He could hear the exasperated male voice from inside. “I'm coming, I'm coming. Easy on the poor door.”

“Hey, I'm Connor, I live downstairs,” he said, as soon as the door opened.

The man frowned at him.

“I know. I’ve held the door open for you. I’ve gotten your mail before. Oliver introduced us, like, twice. Why are you introducing yourself to me and what did my door do to personally offend you?” Connor's neighbor asked, opening the door further, as if to keep it as far from Connor as possible.

“I need to use your window.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm locked out and Mr. Smith isn't around. I really need to get back inside. If I can use your window, I can go down the fire escape and I'll be in my apartment in no time.”

The man frowned, still unconvinced.

“Okay, listen,” Connor pleaded, “I need to get back inside. I need to prepare the best dinner ever made for my boyfriend. I don't want to disappoint him on Valentine's Day. Please do this for me and I'll owe you one. I promise, I'll do anything if you let me use your window.”

The man considered. “On one condition.”

“Anything,” Connor promised.

“You make sure my wife knows I helped you. She keeps telling me I’m a heartless bastard. You tell her I helped, you can use my window.”

“Deal.” They shook on it and he stepped aside to let Connor in.

He led Connor to the window closest to the fire escape, holding it open so Connor could climb out of it.

“Just be careful. If you fall and die, she won’t appreciate my effort.”

“Thank you!” Connor yelled before his neighbor closed the window after him.

Slipping his fingers under the window frame, he lifted it so he could get inside.

He was about to let out a deep sigh of relief for finally being back in his apartment, when he lost his footing and bumped against a small table on his way down.

“No, no, please,” he quietly pleaded from his place on the floor as the glass vase with flowers his mother loved so much – and his sister teased him about endlessly – met its shattering end on the wooden floor.

He let his head fall back on his arm, letting out a resigned sigh, and choosing to stay on the floor for another minute.

“Why?” he muttered.

He got up to fetch the other bags waiting outside the door, careful not to get locked out again. Putting them down next to the other ones on the counter, he decided to clean up the broken vase before he ended up having even more accidents because of it.

Once done, Connor chanced a look at the sky, silently asking whoever might be there listening to  please give him a break.

He hadn’t expected it to work. Not really. But it kinda did. For a while, at least.

The table was set, everything was clean and put away, the food was being prepared, no more setbacks or accidents. He was almost in the clear.

That was until there was a sudden knock on his door and the knife in his hand slid an inch deeper than it should have and got his finger.

“Damn it!” he cursed and immediately ran his hand under cold water. He picked up a dish towel, wrapped it around his finger and applied pressure.

“I’m coming!” he yelled in response to the second set of knocks on his door.

He opened the door to a smiling Oliver, holding a bottle of wine.

“Hey! I know I’m early, I’m sorry. I thought it was the easiest way to avoid traffic, but I actually didn’t expect to get here so soon, and it’d be silly to just wait in the car right?” Oliver paused when he saw the grimace in Connor’s face. He winced in response. “I should have called, right? I mean, it’s not like we’re strangers or anything, but I should have–”

“No, no, that’s not–” Connor started, opening the door further, and pulling another face when the fabric of the dish towel dragged against his open wound.

“Oh God, what happened?” Oliver asked, immediately walking inside and grabbing Connor’s wrist to look at his hand.

Connor reached behind him to close the door with his other hand and winced when Oliver pulled the cloth away from his bleeding finger, before pressing against it again, eliciting another pained groan from him.

“Sorry,” Oliver whispered. “It looks really deep and it hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. Maybe we should take care of this first?”

“Yeah,” Connor agreed.

Oliver let go of Connor to put the bottle down on a nearby table. He walked back to Connor, placing his hands on his shoulders and directing him to the bathroom.

“Where do you keep your first aid kit?” he asked when he turned on the lights, following Connor into the room.

“It’s under the sink somewhere. Ow.”

Oliver crouched down to locate the small box, giving Connor a disapproving look. “Stop pulling at it. We need to disinfect it and you’re just making it worse. How did you do that, anyway?”

Connor sighed. “It’s been a long day. I wasn’t expecting you yet. Your knocking scared me.”

“Oh. Sorry. I knew I should have called,” Oliver added in a soft voice, opening the box and turning on the faucet.

“I probably would have nipped my finger the second the phone started ringing. I think it was destiny, so don’t feel too bad about it.”

He pulled the dish towel again and placed his hand under the stream of cold water. It felt both nice and agonizing.

Oliver plucked the sterilized gauze from the box and pressed it to Connor’s finger, while he turned off the faucet with his other hand.

“What did you mean by that destiny thing?” Oliver asked, letting Connor apply pressure to his finger while he put everything back in the first-aid kit.

Connor let out a deep sigh. “Where to even start? This whole day has just been a mess, really.”

He told Oliver about how things basically went to hell the second he got out of bed, lifting his shirt to show him the purple bruises he’d gotten, courtesy of his dresser and his shower stall.

Oliver looked worried and even offered to apply some cream to his bruises, the first-aid box still in his hands, but Connor shook his head and continued telling him about his awful day.

“You know, I wouldn’t have gotten mad if you had cancelled,” Oliver commented with a smile once Connor was done. “Sounds like it probably would have been better, since I kind of contributed to your shitty day,” he added, pointing at Connor’s finger.

When Connor slowly peeled off the gauze, they both peered down, noticing that the blood hadn’t stopped flowing.

“Okay, that doesn’t look good, Connor. I think it goes deeper than what we expected. Maybe we should take you to the hospital to get that checked,” Oliver suggested.

Connor shrugged, pressing the bloody gauze back on his cut. “It doesn’t really hurt. I think we can give it some more time to see if it stops. Maybe I took it off too soon.”

“I really don’t think–” Oliver stopped abruptly. “Do you smell that?”

“What? Smell what?”

And that was the moment the fire alarm in his kitchen started blaring.

“Oh, shit! The food!”

They both ran out of the bathroom, Connor going straight for the stove to turn it all off, but the damage was already done. Flames were already making their way up the walls, leaving a black train behind.

“Connor!”

“I know, I know,” he replied, walking away from this kitchen and out of his apartment, where Oliver was waiting.

A few minutes later and here he is now, getting up from the cold sidewalk when the paramedic approaches him to check on his bloody finger. Oliver gets up, too, nods in the direction of a small group of people from the building and walks away. Connor lets out a long sigh.

“Let me guess, date gone wrong?” the paramedic asks him, removing the gauze to look at his injury.

“I guess you could say that,” Connor says, watching him work, wincing when he cleaned the wound.

“Well, I’ve got some good news for you. You won’t need stitches.”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital?” he asks, surprised. He was pretty sure he almost cut his finger off. Well, okay, it didn’t hurt that bad, but it looked seriously deep.

“No need. You’re all good,” the paramedic reassures him, wrapping some tape around his finger to secure the clean gauze he used to replace the previous bloody one.

Connor sighs in relief just as the paramedic gathers his things and Oliver returns to his side.

“The firemen have a few more things to do and then we can head back inside. They say it's safe for us to go back in tonight. Something about the damage being only cosmetic. I don't know any more details. But you should call the insurance company tomorrow morning,” Oliver suggests.

Connor nods absentmindedly, inspecting his wrapped up finger.

“How bad is it?” Oliver asks, taking Connor’s wrist and turning his hand left and then right to check the handiwork.

“The paramedic said it’s good. No need for stitches or anything.”

“That’s good,” Oliver says with a smile, placing a hand on Connor’s lower back. “Wanna go back inside? I think they’re almost done.”

“Yeah.”

Once they’re back inside, Connor looks at the darker walls of his kitchen. He’s gonna have to deal with that now. Chancing a look at his blackened cabinets and scorched countertops, he releases another deep breath.

“I’m so sorry, Oliver. I wanted this to be perfect,” he voices in a sad and regretful tone once he feels Oliver lean beside him against the back of the couch.

“Hey, it’s okay!” Oliver reassures him, elbowing him softly. “We’re both still here and one got hurt. That’s more than okay with me.”

He walks in front of Connor, who’s back to looking at his injured finger and pulling on a loose thread of gauze, and places his hands on his neck, his thumbs rubbing against his jaw.

“What do you say we order some takeout, settle in for the night, maybe get extra cozy on your couch…”

Connor scoffs and looks up at his boyfriend.

“You’re always complaining my couch is too small.”

“Well,” Oliver starts in a velvety voice, “maybe I want to be really close to you tonight. Maybe I want to wrap my arms around you and kiss you senseless.” One of his hands moves down from Connor’s neck to his collar bone, fingers slowly unbuttoning the first two buttons on his black shirt.

“Jesus, Oliver,” Connor breathes, eyelids closing, heartbeat picking up, and skin warming up. “If you continue that, I think we’re gonna have to skip the food and the couch.”

Oliver’s hands don’t stop moving, one working on unbuttoning Connor’s shirt and and the other buried in in Connor’s hair, pulling his head back so he can kiss those rosy lips.

He pulls back just as Connor’s hands grip his hips to pull him closer.

“Hmm. I did get here a bit early, didn’t I? I say we start with the dessert.”

Connor chuckles, already grabbing Oliver’s wrist and pulling him towards the bedroom. Maybe his day wasn’t all that bad.


End file.
